When The Hunter Becomes The Hunted
by casandhistrenchcoat
Summary: John Watson wanted an escape from his stressful work and shady past. His idea was to take a break and have a nice, normal holiday in America. Any hope of "normal" was shattered when John met a man named Sherlock Holmes who knew about his dark history. AU John and Sherlock are hunters. Anger, violence, gore, angst, tears, love, and smut. Rated M for future chapters.
1. Chapter 1

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: I don't own the rights to any of the characters, but I promise the story will be fun. This only the beginning and I shall enjoy toying with your emotions later on.**

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_Now boarding flight 637 straight to Phoenix, Arizona. _

John Watson sat in a horrible thinly padded seat at the Heathrow Airport. He can't wait for his holiday in America. The doctor had planned to eat Twinkies, swim, get drunk, possibly pass out, and come back with a great tale to share. Work at the hospital has been overwhelming. One patient came in with a particularly nasty wolf bite at the nape of the neck. Another was wheeled in with a warped version of vitiligo. Instead of having white patches on the skin, the man's skin had been speckled with a reddish orange. He also had a rather ugly bullet wound to head. It seemed people were getting injured left and right nowadays.

_Army and first class may board now._

Oh, god this is going to take forever. John readjusted in his seat and returned to his book. As much as John tried, he just couldn't quite get back into The Hobbit. The doctor noticed one of the taller flight attendants handing out brochures for some sort of flight point redemption to people still waiting to board the plane. He forced himself to read on to avoid any awkward social interaction. Today just wasn't the day for a lot of talk.

_Rows 27-32 may board now._

John let out a groan. Airplanes always took forever to load, forced you to sit in a stiff chair for hours on end, fed you crap food, usually had some sort of disaster happen, and took forever to unload.

_Rows 20-32 may board now._

Some people around John got up out of their seats, stretched, and shuffled their way to the line of people getting on. "I wonder if I could make it over to the snack bar and back before they called my row." Thought John. He had a battle internally and caved into his desire for a bag of crisps. The doctor grabbed his suitcase and computer bag and headed for the snack bar.

_Rows 14-32 may board now._

The voice over the intercom sounded fuzzy and distant. It'd only be a matter of time before she announced that row eight could board. John grabbed the bag of crisps and tossed the money on the counter. He swiftly tucked the change and receipt from his transaction into his pocket and ran for the gate. If he were lucky, he'd make it in time with only some people in front of him.

_Rows 4-32 may board now._

John was sprinting now. His suitcase was teetering from his speed and his computer bag continually slammed into his hip. As much as he wanted to correct the positioning of it, he didn't have anytime to stop and fix it or he'd be too late. John joined the line, panting as he stood behind the people also waiting to board. The line moved slowly. There was a hold up when the woman in front of him was asked to check if her bag was small enough to be considered carry on. The flight attendant nodded at the woman and she was able to board the plane.

"Ticket, sir?"

The doctor looked at the woman for a brief moment. He had been so annoyed with the slow moving line he'd blanked out. It hadn't occurred to him to pull his ticket out.

"Oh, yes. Here."

John let go of his suitcase handle and fished around in his pocket and handed her the flimsy piece of paper.

"Thank you, Mr. Watson."

The attendant gave him a slight smile, which he returned. John grabbed awkwardly for his suitcase handle, missing it a few times. He wheeled the black case on his right side and walked down the connecting corridor to the plane. The traffic of people boarded backed up about halfway down the corridor. John sighed, at least he was checked in and boarding. Unlike the line for checking in, the line for boarding went relatively quickly and John stepped into the plane.

He slowly made his way down the isle, glancing side to side at the seat markers. At row eight, John picked his suitcase up. The case was relatively light, but his left shoulder strained at the weight. He still hadn't entirely adjusted from his near fatal shot. John closed the overhead bin and squeezed his way through the couple in seats A and B to make his way to seat C.

The doctor sat and gave a sigh of relief. It felt good to not be on his feet anymore. John fumbled with his seatbelt a bit and sluggishly buckled himself in.

He hadn't been sitting in the chair more than a few seconds before the reality of the situation started to dawn on him. He soon realized he'd be in the air and there was no going back. John gripped the seat's armrest tight, trying to breath. His mind wondered back to all the times as a kid when he rode on planes with his mum. The first flight thirteen people were flung out of an emergency exit. The second flight ended in a crash landing somewhere of the coast of Ireland. Flight number three involved one of the passengers spitting up blood and dying on the plane. The final flight involved a heated argument between two men that ended in strangulation of one of the two businessmen. John hasn't been on a flight since those trips and drove anywhere he needed to go, even if those trips would take at least a full week of driving. God did he hate flying.

A short, blonde haired flight attendant came out and demonstrated how to fasten the seat belts, where the flotation devices were located, and pointed to the overhead containers that held the oxygen masks incase the cabin lost air pressure. John felt no consolation from the attendants and pilot assuring their flight would be good. The pilots of crashed planes also said that to their passengers.

The engine started to fire up. Another surge of panic crashed into John and he frantically closed the window. He had the look of a small animal about to be eaten and tightened his grip on the armrests. The plane sped up and the feeling of weightlessness hit John, along with another wave of panic and stress.

"Breathe, John. Just breathe."

After a couple minutes, John relaxed a bit and sank into his seat. His eyelids fluttered. The good doctor thought happily about sleep. After all, the plane did take off at midnight. He let his heavy eyelids shut and fell asleep.

John was abruptly awoken. The sound of something slamming had startled him. He glanced around at the other passengers. Not one of them was awake and the cabin was eerily dark. John groaned and stretched his neck. He rolled up the sleeve of his jumper and checked his watch. 4:18.

"I've only been on this plane 4 bloody hours?"

John let out a sigh. At least his first few hours had been fine.

There was another loud crash from the back, followed by a smash, a thunk, and a grunt. John knew exactly what this sounded like, but he didn't want to think about it. Really, he had only two choices, and god did he want to believe that it was the first one.

Silently, John unbuckled himself and stood up. He wiggled his way past the couple next to him and stood in the aisle. As he stood in the pitch-black isle, a loud thud and a grunt came from the back. The doctor cocked his head toward the curtain separating the passengers from the back of the plane.

_That's unusual._

John crept on his feet as silently as he could. If this was what he thought it was, he was in for a boatload of trouble. He glanced at the curtain and reached a hand out to pull it back. John was holding a handful of fabric and could hear what sounded like a conversation. He released his grip on the curtain and pressed his ear to the little crack between the curtain and back wall.

"Why are you doing this?"

"Why does anyone do anything?"

He heard a splash and a sizzle. A slight hissing sound left the mouth of one of the two men behind the curtain.

"I'm not telling you anything."

"I thought you might say that."

There was another splash and sizzle. The man who'd hissed before was gritting his teeth to try and keep the scream from coming out of his throat.

"Willing to talk now? Or should I just hit you again? I've got all day."

What the bloody hell?

"Alright. The boss wants us to take out the people on the hit list."

"What does he want with them?"

"I don't know."

Another splash and sizzle. This time, the men let out a pained groan.

"Don't lie to me."

"How do you know I'm lying?"

"I lie professionally. Tell me why."

"No."

Splash and sizzle. The pained groans escalated into pained screams.

"Argh, enough. He wants them because he has big plans for their souls. What that plan is, I don't know."

Splash and sizzle. More pained screams.

"Tell me the truth!"

"I am! Boss says footmen shouldn't know everything."

There was pained breathing from behind the curtain. John's doctor senses started kicking in and, before he knew it, he had pulled back the curtain.

He saw two men. One was bound by rope to a wooden chair and seated in some sort of circle star with many symbols inside it. He was struggling and sopping wet, but his eyes didn't look normal. Were they completely black? John gulped. He knew this wasn't going to end well.

The other man held a bucket in his hand. He turned towards John and stared with anger and intent. John met his gaze, unfazed by what he just saw.

"What are you doing back here?"

The man's voice was calm. It didn't match the gaze he was shooting John. The calm was unsettling, and he started to panic a bit.

"I heard screaming. I'm a doctor, and I came to see if-"

"We're fine. Go sit down."

The man tied down was laugh manically. He strained both his arms and the ropes snap.

"You didn't think you'd keep me tied down long, did you?"

He shot the man with a bucket this snarky look and flung him into the wall narrowly escaping a knock to the small window. In his attempt to get up, his legs flailed everywhere. The bottom of his shoes scrapped the floor and picked off a chunk of the paint.

"Whoops! I'm free!"

The possessed man stepped out of the circle and looked at John. He looked like he was going to devour him as breakfast.

"You're next."

The man ran at John, but before he got to him, the other man had wrapped his lanky arms around his waist and held him to the ground.

Now was John's chance.

"Keep him held down."

_"Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus_

_omnis satanica potestas, omnis incursio_ _infernalis adversarii, omnis legio,_ _omnis congregatio et secta diabolica._"

The possessed man was struggling now. His breath was ragged and he had a pleading look in his eyes.

"Don't!"

_"Ergo draco maledicte_ _et omnis legio diabolica adjuramus te._ _cessa decipere humanas creaturas,_ _eisque aeternae Perditionis venenum propinare."_

"Please! Stop!"

_"Vade, Satana, inventor et magister_ _omnis fallaciae, hostis humanae salutis._"

Now the man holding the struggler down was staring at the doctor through his curly, black locks. He didn't let much on, but John could tell he was surprised.

_"Humiliare sub potenti manu dei,_ _contremisce et effuge, invocato a_ _nobis sancto et terribili nomine,_ _quem inferi tremunt._ _Ab insidiis diaboli, libera nos, Domine._"

"Stop! Stop!"

_"Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus_ _omnis satanica potestas, omnis incursio_ _infernalis adversarii,omnis legio,_ _omnis congregatio et secta diabolica._"

John was stumbling and tripping over the words now. The man on the floor was horrendously pissed of and was driving his fingernails into the man pinning him down. Curly hair's face cringed as he forced back a scream of pain and held his ground on top of the possessed man.

_"Ergo draco maledicte_ _et omnis legio diabolica_ _adjuramus te._ _Cessa decipere humanas creaturas,_ _eisque aeternae Perditionis venenum propinare._"

John wanted to help the pale man pin down the squirming possessed man, but he knew all he could do was finish.

_"Ut Ecclesiam tuam secura tibi facias libertate servire_ _te rogamus, audi nos!"_

John hadn't meant to raise his voice on the last line, but it worked nonetheless. A black smoke left the man on the floor's mouth, and he let out a pained scream. Once the all the smoke was out of his mouth, the man passed out onto the floor. The other man on top of him let out the breath he was holding. John put a hand on his shoulder.

The other man instantly looked up at John through his matted black hair.

"Who are you?"

The man was staring at the doctor intently after asking.

"I said. Who. Are. You."

"Um, my—my name is, uh, John. John Watson."

The other man stood up and towered over John. He glared down at the doctor.

"Well, John, how did you know what to say?"

"I'm sorry, but I'm pretty sure that's none of your business."

John smirked at his last remark. The other man scowled. He was angrier now then when John had originally walked in.

"Fine. Don't tell me. I don't have time for childish games."

The man leaned down and picked up the man passed out. He dropped him harshly in a plane seat and buckled him in.

"He'll be fine. Give him a few hours."

The man was starting to clean all the paint off the floor now.

"I know he'll be fine. Mind explaining to me what was happening back here."

"I believe that's none of your business."

John scowled at the other man's back. He hated when others used his own words against him.

"Tell me. Now. I know demon possession when I see it."

The man on the floor stopped cleaning. Slowly, he spun on his heels and stood up.

"What did you say?"

"Demon possession. I know it when I see it, otherwise I wouldn't have used the exorcism. Erm, why did you bring him on the plane?"

The man stared intently at John. His aquamarine eyes seemed to pierce through John, as if examining his soul.

"I found him on the plane. You don't honestly think I'd bring a demon on a plane, much less a plane full of people who'll be flying straight for 10 hours?"

That last remark took John aback. Who is this guy?

"Uh, who are you?"

"Name's Sherlock. I don't know how you knew about that exorcism, but I want you to drop it. You don't know the horrors I've seen and I'm not about to drag some pedestrian with me."

John was angry now. How dare he call him a pedestrian! This bloke obviously doesn't know whom he's talking to.

"Look, Sherlock, you don't need to worry about me. I can handle myself. As far as horrors go, I've seen a lot worse than just demons. Things that should send someone howling to the nut house. But I'm here. I'm still alive and kicking."

That shut Sherlock up for a bit. John knew it would. He wasn't expecting Sherlock to know anything about John's history.

"Watson. I thought I knew the name. You've just proved it."

"Proved what?"

"I had a hunch you were a hunter, but I wasn't expecting to meet a Watson."

Sherlock was smiling down at John now. John let out a sigh of relief.

"You, you've heard of me?"

"Not exactly. I've heard excellent things about Harry Watson and Ben Watson. I presume they're your brother and father. Hunting runs in your blood."

"Well, hunting's not something I do anymore. It did things to the family."

"Was I right?"

"About what?"

"Ben and Harry. Are they any good?"

"Very good, but you were off about them."

Sherlock frowned.

"What was I wrong about? Ben is my father, yes, but Harry is short for Harriet."

"Sister? Of course it's your sister."

"I don't meet many hunters who know of us. In fact, I don't meet any hunters outside my family."

"There don't need to be any in England. Your family does a good job at cleaning out things."

John was blushing. He'd never been complimented on his family's hunting skill.

"The attendants will be coming around with breakfast soon. Coming?"

Sherlock gave John a slight smile and held the curtain open, waiting for John. John looked down at his watch. It was only 4:56 am. Sherlock's version of soon was very interesting.

"Definitely."


	2. Chapter 2

**Same intro as the other chapter about this just being for fun because I have a serious problem being addicted to Sherlock and Supernatural.**

**Anyway, sorry for the wait on this. I've had to get stuff ready for school next week and create a Bilbo Baggins, John Watson, Castiel, Loki, Khan (Benedict Cumberbatch edition) and Mystique cosplay. Fun!**

**I promise you, next chapter will have tons of violence, because I like writing violence and it wouldn't be much fun without it. Enjoy!**

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John approached Sherlock at the curtain.

"I'm pretty sure our little skirmish with that demon woke most of the passengers up."

Sherlock smirked at the shorter doctor.

"What's the worst they can do as punishment? Kick us out of the plane by throwing us out the emergency exit?"

John's small smile disappeared. The memory of his first fretful flight loomed over him. He and his mum had done everything in their power to stop a demon named Adler from crashing the plane and killing every single person on the flight. The solution they had chose was to blow a hole in the side of the plane by opening the emergency exit and having the air pressure suck the demon out into the sky. His mum held the demon at bay while John made sure everyone was fastened tight into his or her seat belts. Unfortunately, Adler caught onto the plan of blowing a hole in the plane. She broke free of John's mum's grip and ripped the emergency exit door off. Adler, along with twelve innocent passengers was sucked out of the cabin. John managed to strap himself down to an empty seat, and his mum held onto part of the wall for dear life until the pilot made an emergency landing.

He kicked the memory out of his mind and smiled once again. The doctor hoped Sherlock hadn't noticed his expression change as the awful memory had flooded back.

"What's wrong, John?"

John sighed. He knew he hadn't hidden his discomfort very well, but still he had hoped the taller man hadn't noticed.

"The thought of an emergency exit being ripped off doesn't exactly suit my fancy."

Sherlock's face dropped and hardened into an unreadable, cold poker face.

"Obviously, but that's not why you're uncomfortable, is it? John, I'd appreciate it if you would just flat out tell me you had a demon mishap where people were sucked out of the emergency exit."

John looked at Sherlock's icy blue eyes. He was utterly baffled. How could Sherlock know about the experience? Was he on that plane too? John didn't remember him. Then again, the memory was over 30 years old.

"How did you know about that?"

Sherlock's cold stare loosened as his lips curled into a devious smile. He quickly glanced over John's body language and let out a very mischievous chuckle.

"Your slight change in expression showed more than dislike. It showed slight fear. You could just be imagining the situation, but it seemed more likely it was a genuine fear of the situation I had briefly mentioned. The word that triggered the experience was emergency exit, so I can only determined that someone, well, something had to do with an emergency exit. Your fear grew slightly more visible and your eyes briefly scanned the cabin when I mentioned throwing us out of the exit meaning during the same experience someone was thrown out of the emergency exit and you scanned the cabin to see if the same thing might be on this flight. Conclusion: roughly 20 maybe 25 years ago you got on a plane and had a run in with a demon who tore the emergency exit door off and resulted in at least 13 people being sucked out, including the demon itself."

The doctor's jaw dropped. He stood with his eyes unwavering from Sherlock's gaze. His bewilderment, confusion, and amazement left him in a sort of numb, unmoving stage. The curly haired man's smile was hardening into that unreadable face again. John assumed he was bracing for his response.

"How can you possibly know it was a demon?"

Sherlock's face had briefly filled with a look of relief before brightening a bit.

"Shot in the dark, good one though. Did I get anything wrong?"

"I was flying to a hunting trip with my mum when the demon surfaced. We were going to strap everyone down and have the pressure of the emergency exit suck the demon out, but she caught onto our plan and opened it before we could assure the safety of the other passengers. Twelve passengers and the demon were lost."

Sherlock shot John a look of slight astonishment and confusion. His brow had slightly crinkled.

"Spot on. I wasn't expecting to be right about everything."

"The memory happening about 30 years ago."

Sherlock's face dimmed a bit.

"You're forty. Hunting's kept you looking slightly younger."

John smiled at the somewhat compliment. This man named Sherlock-if that was his real name-seemed to be a decent hunter. Well, he was at least tolerable. A tall, blue-black hair attendant appeared behind the curly haired man.

"Excuse me, gentlemen. Passengers shouldn't be back here while the flight attendants are getting everything in order for breakfast."

Both Sherlock and John jumped a bit, startled by the woman's seemingly ghostly entrance. John cleared his throat.

"Oh, yes, of course. We'll head back to our seats then."

Sherlock turned from the curtain and squeezed his way past the flight attendant, pausing to turn slightly to see if John was following. The doctor kept his head down, embarrassed at being caught doing nothing but being shady behind a curtain. He wormed his way past the flight attendant and stopped when he got close to Sherlock. The curly haired man strode a few long steps before turning to face row 18. He sat down in seat C and pulled out his pack from underneath the seat.

John followed, but stood awkwardly at the edge of the row. Sherlock was ruffling through his papers and was holding what looked like missing person's reports with his mouth.

"Sit."

The doctor barely heard the muffled word. He shot Sherlock an awkward glance.

"Aren't there people sitting here? Sherlock, I have a seat of my own."

Sherlock took the papers out of his mouth and set them gently on the tray table. He didn't glance up at John.

"I am well aware you have your own seat, John. You couldn't have got on the plane without one. Now, sit."

"I'm not a dog, Sherlock."

The curly haired man stopped digging through his pack and threw it back under the chair in front of him. He locked his icy eyes on John's and gave him a cold stare. After a few seconds, he broke the stare and started fishing underneath the seat in front of him for something under his pack.

"I'm not asking for much, John. No one sits in these two seats. You can move back to your original seat before the plane lands."

"Why?"

Sherlock pulled out a sleek black binder and pulled it up onto his lap.

"I have an idea. Sit."

John groaned. A man a couple rows ahead of them turned his head."

"Hey! You two idiots woke most of the plane up with your bloody mischief in the back! Sit down and shut up!"

The man turned back to face forward in his seat. John looked at Sherlock and felt heat rush to his face. He quietly sat down in seat B and bit back a laugh. The doctor could feel Sherlock's gaze on him. He turned his head and met his eyes for a full two seconds before both of them collapsed into an uncontrollable fit of laughter.

The two rows in front of them, next to them, and behind them, were now staring intently and annoyed at row 18. They were officially making the most racket on the plane, and there was even a woman with two three year olds on board. Sherlock was the first one to calm down and wipe his tear-stained cheeks.

"I haven't laughed like that in quite some time. Ten years to be precise."

John took a deep breath to steady his breathing.

"So, ten years ago was when you stepped into the hunting business?"

"Unimportant details, but yes."

"What made you get into it? I mean, come on, people don't just jump into a living nightmare because they're bored."

Sherlock's face was stone cold. He swallowed hard and looked at John's tear-stained cheeks.

"Nothing happened. I was bored and thought it'd be fun."

John stared at him quizzically. The doctor heard the underlying pain in Sherlock's voice. There was a story underneath that calm persona and it didn't look like Sherlock was sharing. John wanted to believe that people could just join hunting with no emotional back-story and he wanted to believe that people could leave without being hunted down and killed by some creature, but they never did. There was always something that pushed a person over the edge. Some seek revenge, while others are born into the life and raised to think no other way. John sighed. There were a few moments of brief silence. He picked up one of the missing persons reports and skimmed over it.

"What are all of these reports for?"

"John, you should be able to piece that one together on your own."

The doctor looked over the top of the report and rolled his eyes at Sherlock. John looked back at the paper in his hands and began reading thoroughly.

_John Harrison, 24. Missing for three days. Last seen leaving for a camping trip in the Bootlegger campgrounds of Sedona, AZ, with Joe Mernan._

The doctor stopped reading after the first sentence. Since Joe Mernan was last to see him, John could chalk this up to a simple murder. Holding the paper in his hand though, his instincts told him there was more to this story. Obviously Sherlock wouldn't have the reports if something wasn't off. He picked up another report off the tray table and read the first sentence on that one.

_Mary Endleston, 22. Missing for two days. Last seen leaving for a camping trip in the Bootlegger campgrounds of Sedona, AZ._

John furrowed his brow. This case spelled disaster and danger. He picked up the last missing persons case of the tray table and read.

_Joe Mernan, 24. Missing for three days. Last seen leaving for a camping trip in the Bootlegger campgrounds of Sedona, AZ, with John Harrison._

Sherlock's deep baritone voice broke the silence between them as John tried to put together the strings of the case.

"Two men out on a camping trip disappear with no trace. The next day, a woman disappears from the exact same campground."

"Any ideas on what this could be?"

"Eight so far. I'll need to see the campground before I make any conclusions."

"All we know is three people have disappeared and you already have eight ideas?"

"No. All _you_ know is that three people have disappeared from a campground. I on the other hand, know that the same thing happened exactly fifty years ago, except a total of twenty-two people went missing with no trace and never showed up again."

"Exactly fifty years?"

Sherlock smirked at John's confusion. He shifted in his seat and reached under his left thigh. The curly haired man pulled out a folded, scrunched up packet of paper and handed it to the blonde haired man sitting next to him. John took the packet out of his slender fingers and stared at the first page.

_Jimmy Val, 35. Disappeared on Monday, September 4__th__. Last seen by his sister before heading to the pass allowing public access to the mountains of Sedona, AZ._

John quickly flipped through the rest of the packet.

_Jerry Gerfiel, Judy Rhode, Jimmy Novak, Anna Fent, Matt Smith, _

He flipped through the packet at faster pace, skipping last names entirely.

_Benedict, Carlton, Timothy, Martin, Irene, Greg, Mark, Molly, Ivan, Ally, Athena, Deanna, Geoffrey, Louis, Perry, Louisa, and Jerry._

"All of these people went missing fifty years ago?"

The doctor was thoroughly bewildered. Some creature they were dealing with.

"Correct, John. All twenty-two of them. It seems that fifty years is its hibernation time. Now that it's awake, it seems the thing needs food to gather strength again. It's imperative that we kill it before it gets too strong."

"Alright then. Let's gank the son of a bitch before it kills again."

Sherlock scowled at John. His face was sterile and cold. The tone of his voice took a seriously dark turn.

"John, I appreciate your help, but I'm doing this on my own."

The blonde haired man was now gathering heat in his face again. His anger was starting to rise and boil in his stomach.

"You only wanted me to sit down so you could, what, show off how much you knew about your case? Well, congratulations, you know more."

"John, I-"

"Save it, Sherlock. I'm coming with you on this trip whether you like it or not. The last hunter I knew who worked alone was killed by his own son turned vamp. I know the value of back up to a hunter and this trip sounds fun."

Sherlock stared at John with a fire in his eyes. He was digging his nails into his left leg and was clenching his jaw closed tight to avoid shouting at the stubborn doctor next to him. Sherlock took in a deep breath and slowly let it out, releasing the grip he had on his thigh and unclenching his jaw.

"Fine. We'll give it a go."

John looked at Sherlock, slightly surprised at his quick compliance. Sherlock didn't seem like the type to give in easily. John was going to have to keep a close eye on the arrogant, stubborn git sitting next to him. He'd seen far too many hunters let their ego and self-righteousness get them ripped to shreds.

They both sat in silence for the rest of the flight. Sherlock had his arms crossed across his chest and refused to look anywhere except the window. John read his book, but his attention was mainly devoted to the silent treatment Sherlock put on.

_This is your captain speaking. Please fasten seat belts, as we will be landing in Phoenix within the next 20 minutes._

John felt Sherlock move in his seat. He looked at the curly haired man sitting next to him and gave a little smile. Sherlock didn't return the smile. He just sat with an annoyed look. John sighed. There was no way Sherlock was going to make this a fun trip. Then again, this was a hunting trip. Fun wasn't exactly something experienced in this line of work.

The plane shook as it experienced some turbulence. John blindly grabbed for the armrest and missed it completely, accidently death gripping Sherlock's right thigh. The curly haired man let out a howl of pain.

"John!"

"Sorry."

He instantly released his grip on Sherlock's thigh and grabbed the armrest. There was mild turbulence for the duration of landing, each shake making John grip the armrest tighter. There was a loud rushing sound, and the plane skidded against the asphalt of the runway.

John released the armrest as the plane came to a complete halt. Sherlock rummaged under the seat in front of him and pulled up his pack. He quickly gathered all the police reports and neatly filed them away. The rest of the passengers stood up and proceeded to open the overhead bins for their suitcases. People filed out of the plane slowly. John stood and stretched his shoulders.

"C'mon, Sherlock."

Sherlock pulled his pack onto his lap and stood with an annoyed huff. He followed John into the aisle and pulled down his slightly dusty, black suitcase from the overhead bin. John walked towards the front of the plane and paused at row eight. He slid though the now empty row and pulled his computer bag out from under the seat in front of his original one. The doctor turned and exited the row. He reached for the overhead bin and stopped. The strain on his left shoulder was agonizing. He let out a small holler of pain.

Sherlock walked over to him and pulled the red suitcase down from the overhead bin.

"Here."

He handed the case to John.

"We'd better get out of here quick if we want to make it to Sedona with enough time to find a motel and scope out the campground."

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_I apologize for any errors, but, hey, nobody's perfect. If there are any mistakes, let me know. I had to beta it myself and was watching Toy Story 2 at the same time. ALSO, if you have any suggestions for monsters/demigods/angels/demons they should run into, PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE let me know. I'd love to see what creative things you all can do :)_


	3. Chapter 3

**Hey guys! So, I'm sorry this took so long. I had to get ready for the first week of school and already got a crap ton of homework! Hooray. Anyway, I hope you enjoy this chapter. I had fun writing most of this in public. Also, I apologize for the length of it and any mistakes. Ok, I'm going to stop going on and on and let you read my story. ENJOY!**

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There was a brief moment of silence before John took his suitcase and nodded at Sherlock.

"Let's go."

He pulled up the retractable handle on the top and held the suitcase by the smaller handle, carrying it a bit awkwardly through the tight rows. Each flight attendant stood at the exit. All three women said goodbye to John as he struggled to get his suitcase out of the plane without accidently hitting other passengers. John stood patiently outside the door waiting for Sherlock to step out. The curly haired man strode out of the plane and walked down the hall adjourning to the airport gate. John grabbed his case and let out of breath as he picked up a solid pace to try and catch up to Sherlock, who was now exiting the hall and walking towards one of the small restaurants.

"Stubborn git."

John was muttering under his breath.

"I heard that."

Sherlock's remark left John with a bitter taste in his mouth. He was conflicted between giving the taller man a toddler type silent treatment, and giving him a nice slap across his prominent cheekbones. The doctor pushed the thoughts to the back of his mind and caught up with Sherlock.

"Are we getting a cab?"

Sherlock glared down at the shorter man and chuckled a little to himself.

"Oh, John. How long have you been out of the hunting business? We can't catch a cab nor can we rent a car."

John tried to keep a professional face while he was imagining stabbing Sherlock.

"No one truly gets out of the business."

The curly haired man nodded in agreement. John abruptly paused, forcing two women behind him to grunt in annoyance and walk around the two of them. He frowned a bit and furrowed his brow.

"Wait, if we aren't getting a cab, and we're not renting a car, how are we getting about? I mean, we can't just walk to Sedona from Phoenix."

Sherlock smiled down at John.

"I know a guy."

The curly haired man swiftly turned away from John and started towards the escalator that joined the gate to the baggage claim. John furrowed his brow deeper. He didn't exactly want to know what Sherlock did to grant him a favor like this, but his curiosity as to what they were going to ride around in grew. John let out a small breath and turned to follow Sherlock.

Both John and Sherlock made their way down the escalator and into the baggage claim area. John did a 180 surveying the entire room. There were six different baggage areas and three in the next room over.

"Sherlock, how are we leaving the airport if we have no car, we're not renting, and you refuse to take a taxi?"

The taller man glared down at John. He narrowed his eyes and let out an annoyed sigh.

"There."

Sherlock pointed to a man in a greenish grey jacket with buzz cut peppered hair. The man he pointed to shifted around in his seat, anticipating the arrival of someone. Sherlock made his way towards the man who jumped quickly out of his seat to smile and smiled softly at Sherlock. John cautiously walked towards the fellow.

"Ah, Sherlock. Good to see you again."

The peppered haired man held out his hand for Sherlock to shake. Sherlock pulled his hand out of his pocket and firmly grasped the other man's extended hand. The taller, darker haired man quickly released his hand and gave the shorter man a tight lipped, forced smile.

"Lestrade."

Lestrade looked over Sherlock's shoulder and smiled at the sight of John. He moved towards the left side of Sherlock and made his way over to the doctor.

"Lestrade."

John gave the man a contented little smile and fumbled to take his hand off the handle of his suitcase. He managed to awkwardly finagle his hand off the handle and extended it towards the man in the green jacket.

"John."

Lestrade shook John's hand with a bit more enthusiasm than necessary. John nervously released the grip he had on Lestrade's hand and dropped it to find the handle of his suitcase again.

The pepper haired looked at over his shoulder towards the curly haired man.

"Where did you find this one, Sherlock?"

He looked back at John and pointed towards Sherlock.

"Did he pick you up from a pub?"

John furrowed his brows at Lestrade's comment.

"Um, no, we're not, I'm not, uh, gay, we're just…"

John could feel the heat rising in his face. Sherlock glanced over coldly at Lestrade's accusation, but said nothing. A smirk grew on his face as he saw John turn a lovely shade of pink.

Lestrade stood still while John babbled on; grasping the words he wanted to get out, but never quite able to say them correctly or in the right order.

"I'm not gay."

John finally let out. He released a breath he didn't know he was holding. An ache started to seep into John's brain from the strain he'd put on it in his defensiveness.

Lestrade forced a laugh.

"Of course you're not. We'd better get going."

He slapped John on the shoulder and turned towards Sherlock. Lestrade nodded in the direction towards the parking lot and started off. John held his shoulder, as his skin was stinging a bit with how hard Lestrade had slapped it. Sherlock followed Lestrade down towards the exit and glanced back at John with a hardened expression. John took this as a hit that he should follow and quickly stumbled towards the two men.

When they reached the parking lot, Lestrade pointed at a squad car.

"I'll take you back to the shop and get you set up there."

Sherlock looked at Lestrade and tilted his head up as his way of saying fine.

John followed bother of the taller man towards the car and stopped at the trunk, waiting for Lestrade to unlock the car. The pepper haired man pressed the small grey button on his car ring and the squad car let out a horrendous beep in response. John jumped from how loud the sound was and watched Sherlock open the trunk as his heart raced fast. The curly haired man shoved his things into the trunk and glanced over at John.

"Put your bags in."

John starred at Sherlock and the curly haired man huffed impatiently. Sherlock grabbed the bags out of John's hands and quickly threw them in the trunk. He slammed the lid hard and walked around John. As Sherlock threw the passenger seat door open, he looked back at the doctor.

"Come on, John. We're loosing daylight."

Sherlock slid into the seat and slammed the door shut. John stood still for a brief second and walked a few steps towards the back door of the squad car. He extended his hand to grab the handle but stopped. The blonde haired man stood for a moment a thought.

_I just met this man, Sherlock Holmes, and now we're working a case together, getting into some stranger's cop car, and possibly sharing a cheap motel room together._

Sherlock rolled the passenger window, fury revealed in his face.

"John!"

John snapped out of his little bought of nervousness and quietly grasped the handle of the car door. He opened the door and slid in, silently closing the door behind him. Lestrade backed out of the parking spot as soon as he saw John was sitting, and John was sliding around in his seat, battling physics trying to fasten his seatbelt. The car sped through the streets of Phoenix. Sherlock blatantly ignored any remarks or complaints Lestrade made about the city. John gripped the leather seat tight as the car rounded a corner, nearly throwing the small man into the window to his right. The pepper haired man tried to make small conversation with the doctor about his relationship to Sherlock throughout the trip, but was cut off quickly by the curly haired man's responses. After about an hour of seemingly getting nowhere with his questions, the pepper haired man sighed and sped up. Lestrade drove like a maniac for the last hour of the drive, until they passed a sign that read "Welcome to Sedona, AZ!" The pepper haired man started to slow down a bit and John released his grip on the leather clad seat. The doctor let out a sigh of relief.

"We're here."

Sherlock continued to stare seemingly aloof out the window.

"Good job, John. You can read."

John narrowed his eyes at Sherlock. He flicked the curly haired man hard in the back of the head. Sherlock quickly flipped around in his seat to glare at the doctor. His eyes practically bored into John with fury.

"You're such a child."

John raised his eyebrows at Sherlock.

"I'm the child? Says the one who gave me the silent treatment for hours on the plane ride here when he didn't get his way."

Sherlock opened his mouth slightly to say something, but closed it. Both men stared with rage at each other. The stare off quickly became a game of chicken of who would look away first. Lestrade broke the tense silent that had overfallen them in the car.

"Alright, you two lovebirds. We're here."

Lestrade parked the car and unbuckled his seat belt. John started to feel the heat rise in his face from Lestrade's last comment. He broke the gaze from Sherlock and yelled towards the pepper haired man who had already left the squad car.

"I'm not gay!"

Lestrade waved a dismissive hand over his shoulder and opened the door to the garage they were parked outside of. John quickly glanced back at Sherlock as if he'd be getting assistance from the curly haired bastard. Sherlock smirked at John's scarlet face and unbuckled his seat belt. Quickly, John unbuckled his seat belt and slammed the car door behind him. He raced towards the two men standing near the entrance of the garage. The two men were standing right in front of a 1958 Chevy Impala. It's pristine white color made it seem like it was glowing and was missing a top. John's mouth gaped in amazement.

"What'd you think?"

Lestrade was looking at both Sherlock and John. Before John could process what Lestrade had asked, Sherlock stepped in.

"It'll do. Come on, John."

Sherlock snatched the keys sitting on a work tray beside the car and hopped over the door and into the driver's seat, shoving the key in the ignition and the car started up with a rumble. John moved slowly towards the passenger door and opened it. He carefully slid into the seat and stared at the car in awe.

"Sherlock."

Sherlock ignored John and drove the car out of the garage, narrowly escaping hitting the squad car outside. Lestrade tried to call out to them, but they were too far-gone to hear.

"Sherlock."

John shifted in his seat and faced Sherlock. The curly haired man glanced John's way before returning his eyes to the road.

"What?"

"Where are we going?"

Sherlock peeled his eyes off the road to glare at John.

"Surely even your simple mind can figure that out."

John opened his mouth to say something but closed it abruptly. There was no use trying to argue with Sherlock. John knew he was just going to ignore whatever he screamed at him. Instead, John shook his head and rested his head in his hand to stare out the side of the window. Twenty minutes passed and they didn't speak to each other. John noticed they were already outside of town, but he didn't need to ask Sherlock where they were going. The curly haired man pulled up to gravel filled campsite.

"Sherlock, I don't have my suit or my badge on me. How are we going to get to the bottom of what's going on?"

John looked over at the curly haired man who was gripping the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles were white. Slowly, Sherlock released his grip on the wheel and looked over at John.

"We're not investigating today."

Sherlock parked the car and pulled the keys out of the ignition. He swiftly unbuckled and hopped over the side of the car. John rolled his eyes. Sherlock's defiance about using the door handle was so juvenile, it made John's skin seethe with irritation. The small doctor quickly unbuckled and followed suit of Sherlock.

"What are we doing here?"

John panted next to Sherlock. The taller man had a good head start on him and the doctor had struggled to catch up. Sherlock glanced quickly at John and pushed through some tall shrubs.

"I'd like to know what I'm dealing with."

"How do you intend to do that without interrogation?"

Sherlock shot a cold look at John. He pulled a little pocket magnifying glass and slid it open. The curly haired man headed deeper into the brush, leaving an utterly confused John behind. John wanted to follow Sherlock, but decided he'd do some investigating of his own instead. The short doctor pushed his way deeper into the brush and further away from Sherlock. He'd been walking for a while and was beginning to feel uneasy. John stopped treading through the brush and stood at perfectly still. There was a yelp for help coming from his right and John instantly was running in that direction. He came to an enclosed area of trees and desperately looked around trying to find the helpless source of the screams he'd heard. John was panting in desperation and scanned the area. His eyes caught a quick glimpse of a form running through the trees. John froze. He was trapped.

Another scream for help came, but the doctor couldn't make out the direction it was coming from. He stood helplessly turning in circles. Slowly, he tilted his head up towards the top of the trees. The same black form from the ground had passed through the treetops. An eerie silence overfell the area and the only audible sounds were John's ragged breaths. He saw the black form move from branch to branch with astonishing speed and knew exactly what he was up against.

"Sh-Sherlock!"

Almost as if on cue, Sherlock burst through the brush, knife in hand. John's heart was beating in his ears and a sudden rush of relief washed over him to see the curly haired man. Sherlock was frantically looking around the woods trying to find some form of life, clutching his knife with white knuckles.

"Where is he? Where did he go?"

Sherlock was practically screaming at John. John looked at him bug eyed and paralyzed.

"Quiet down, will ya? You're going to attract that thing back!"

John was yelling at Sherlock in a harsh whisper. Sherlock instantly scowled at John and headed back the way he came, fuming with rage. Silently, the doctor followed behind the curly haired man, pushing brush out of his face and ducking branches. His eyes scanned the woods for signs of the creature. They stepped out of the woods and back into the gravel clad campground. Sherlock was pacing back and forth, furious.

"I should've known the plan wouldn't work…"

John stood for a bit watching Sherlock babble on about his plan to himself.

"…the incompetence of John."

Sherlock waved the hand with the knife dismissively, as if he didn't know John was overhearing his every word. John's face was a burning shade of scarlet and the tip of his ears stung. The rage inside him had built up and he had no plans to just dismiss Sherlock for being a complete arsehole. John walked up to Sherlock and the curly haired man stopped his pacing to glare at the impediment to his pacing that was John. Furiously, John pointed a finger at Sherlock and was shaking with rage.

"Incompetent? What the hell do you mean by incompetent?"

Sherlock shoved John out of his way harshly.

"You've ruined my experiment!"

John looked at Sherlock with exaggerated surprise, anger still swelling in him.

"How the hell was I supposed to know you were doing a bloody experiment?"

Sherlock let out a mock laugh.

"Honestly, how can you be so thick? You were the experiment!"

John stepped closer to Sherlock.

"You listen here you bloody prick, I am NOT one of your experiments!"

"Don't you see? Don't you get it? You were doing just fine until you screamed bloody murder!"

John opened his mouth to yell, but closed it. He was processing Sherlock's words. The gears in his head were turning and his face grew a brighter shade of red when he'd realized what Sherlock's experiment was.

"I was bait! You bloody used me as bait!"

Sherlock threw his hands in the air out of anger.

"Yes, and, no thanks to you, we still have no idea what we're dealing with! Just when I thought you couldn't be more idiotic…"

That tore it for John. He punched Sherlock square in his perfect cheekbones. The curly haired man was gasping for breath and stunned at what had just happened. He looked up at John, cupping his face in his hand.

"J-John, n-no need to a-act irra-"

John tackled Sherlock to the ground before he could finish his sentence. He pinned the curly haired man to the ground long enough to free the knife from his hands and give it a good toss across the campgrounds.

"My knife!"

Sherlock screamed with rage. He stared at John with fire in his eyes and escaped John's grasp. Sherlock quickly flipped John and pinned him to the gravel-crusted campground. John squirmed under Sherlock's grasp and kicked him in his back. Sherlock let out a howl of pain but didn't let up on his grip. John continued to squirm under the harsh restraint of Sherlock's hands. Each burst and squirm drove gravel into his shirt and caused him to arch his back from the multiple sharp little pains. Sherlock removed his grip from the wrist on the side of John's bad shoulder and clenched a fist of his shirt in his left hand and drew his right to throw a punch. Before Sherlock could land a hit, John had a last burst of energy and threw his newly freed arm to counteract Sherlock's swing. The curly haired man was straining against John's grip and bit down hard on John's wrist. Instantly, John released Sherlock's wrist and yelped. Sherlock took this instance to pop John in his lower jaw.

Sherlock was about to land another blow to John's now bleeding jaw, but a whistle blew and both men jumped at the sheer pitch. A park ranger ran towards them, almost as furious as both men were.

"What the hell do you think you're doing? This is no place for physical brutality!"

The burly, tanned man threw Sherlock off of John roughly by the back of his shirt.

"Get out of here, both of ya!"

Sherlock clumsily stood and John followed, brushing off all the little bits of gravel still stuck to his shirt. Both men walked towards the car in silence. Sherlock unlocked it and used the car handle for the first time. They drove off the gravel campground and headed back for Sedona. John sat in the passenger seat, grasping his jaw and the metallic taste of blood filled his mouth. He winced from the taste and glanced over at Sherlock. Blood was dribbling down his nose and lips. Sherlock made no attempt to wipe the trickles of blood from his face. John almost felt a twinge of regret, but quickly shook the feeling off. Sherlock had brought this on himself.

They pulled up into the parking lot of a Motel 8 and Sherlock parked the car. He sat in the drivers seat, staring blankly out of the windshield. John let out a sigh and faced Sherlock.

"Look, I know you're mad, hell, I'm still mad, but we need to work this out in a civilized manner. You go get us a room and I'll go get us some ice for our…"

John motioned to Sherlock's nose and the curly haired man flinched. The ebony curls obscured Sherlock's face and bounced as Sherlock nodded at John's suggestion. They both left the Impala and separated in the parking lot. John walked towards the ice machine down at the end of the row of rooms. He walked up towards the machine and realized he had nothing to hold the ice when it came out. John kicked the machine and winced in pain. He cursed under his breath at his stupid decision and looked around for something to hold the ice in. In the corner of the hall, there was a small little bucket with contours on the outside, one of those special buckets for building sand castles. Reluctantly, John sighed and picked up the slightly sandy bucket. It'd have to do. He put the bucket up to the machine and hit a button on the front. The machine rumbled and roared to life, dispensing ice into the small bucket. John pulled the now filled bucket of ice away and headed towards the front desk of the Motel 8. Sherlock was standing at the front desk and turned towards John when he entered. A small smile sneaked its way onto John's face and he silently cursed his facial muscles.

The front desk was empty and absent of any papers and even attendants. John stood near Sherlock and looked anywhere but the curly haired man next to him. A perky, sandy blonde haired attendant appeared behind the desk and handed one key to Sherlock. She gave a slight smile to John, and her checks flushed pink as she handed the second key to John and their hands lightly brushed together. John gave her a nice smile and Sherlock's gaze shot from the desk towards the perky attendant. His eyes bored into her, sending her a wavelength of newfound possessiveness. The attendant glanced up at Sherlock, and her face dropped a bit. John thanked the attendant and both men left the front desk and headed out to find their room.

"Sherlock, I got us the ice, but we're going to need a towel to wrap everything in."

Sherlock didn't glance at John and moved into the parking lot to grab their stuff from the Impala. John sighed and stuck the key in the door and unlocked it. The door opened with a creak and John walked in to the dreary grey painted room. He shuffled his way through the room and flipped the light switch on in the bathroom. A sickly yellow light turned on, illuminating a sink, three hand towels, two regular sized towels, a toilet, and a shower. John pulled off two of the hand towels and distributed the bucket of ice between the two. He heard the door slam shut and stuck his head out of the bathroom.

"Come here, Sherlock."

Sherlock stood, gazing questioningly at John. Slowly, Sherlock made his was around both of their things and towards John. The small doctor handed Sherlock a towel of ice, and the curly haired man instantly applied the cool relief to his face. John let out a small sigh, holding his towel of ice at his jaw.

"I'm going out for a walk, Sherlock. Try not to blow the place up while I'm gone."

He opened the door with a creak and slowly closed the door behind him. John released a breath of air and walked down the sidewalk towards downtown. After a few minutes of walking, beautiful buildings appeared on either side of him. Sherlock had drove so fast out of town that John hadn't noticed how amazingly detailed everything was, especially the sidewalks. He stopped for a brief moment to dwell in the beauty surrounding him. John glanced up and his eyes settled on a little novelty store. A devious idea spread into his mind, and he walked down towards the shop. There was a sign above the door that read "Nuevo" and was decorated in a sort of floral pattern, fitting for Sedona. John pushed the wooden door in and a little bell chimed. The store had a smelled of plastic. It was lit with dim lights and other colorful lights in the corners of the store. The walls were decorated with colorful splotches of paint and had some mainstream pop song playing over the loud speaker. There were a handful of people in the store. John shuffled towards the shelf of coffee mugs and glanced over his shoulder at a brunette woman busy talking on her cell phone and riffling through the rack of stupid t-shirts. He chuckled to himself as she picked out a "Redneck at heart" tee. A young man had just walked in with a young woman wearing a way too revealing top. The man wrapped his arm around her shoulder and they both walked towards the back of the store. Curious, John looked towards the back of the store and his eyes widened a bit. The whole back of the store was filled with pieces of adult pleasure items, skimpy fantasy costumes, and even a stripper pole. Part of John wanted to buy the slutty police outfit and surprise Sherlock with it. Disgusted with himself, John quickly looked away from the back and moved the thought to the back of his mind. He walked over to the shelf with decorated backpacks, purses, and unusable bags. There were a couple paper bags underneath the regular bags and backpacks labeled "gift bags." John picked up a red colored one and practically jumped towards the checkout. The man standing at the counter smiled and scanned the red gift bag.

"Your total is $1.25."

John cringed at the price and handed him to bills out of his wallet. The cashier handed him his $0.75 change. John practically tripped over his legs on the way out of the store anticipating the look on Sherlock's face when he returned with his surprise. Outside, the sun had begun to set. John furrowed his brow and pulled out his phone to check the time. It was 6:48. Quickly, John shoved his phone back into his pocket and jogged down the sidewalk back to the motel. He threw open the door and saw Sherlock sitting on the edge of the bed supporting his elbows on his knees and his hands together under his head.

"Sherlock, I got you a little something while I was out."

Sherlock opened one narrow eye at the distraction John was creating. He let out an annoyed sigh and let him show what he got. John stuck his hand in the red gift bag and pretended to grab something. He clenched his hand together and began to pull his hand out. When his hand was almost revealed, he quickly extended his middle finger and flipped of the curly haired man.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and narrowed them at John.

"You're so juvenile."

John laughed at Sherlock's statement, because, in all honesty, who isn't a little juvenile?

"Oh, lighten up Sherlock it's just a…"

John stopped abruptly. His eyes scanned the room and landed on the only bed there was. A ping of anger hit him and he tried to swat it off, but it did no good and returned when John couldn't find any couch for one of them to sleep on.

"Sherlock, why is there only one bed?"

Sherlock didn't glance at John.

"Only room they had left. You don't mind, do you?"

John ears were turning a bright pink as anger boiled in his stomach.

"Yes, I do mind. Sherlock, we are not sharing one bed."

Sherlock snapped his head towards John.

"John, it's only logical unless you'd care to cram yourself in between the foot of the bed and the telly. We can put up a pillow barrier if it makes you feel more comfortable."

All the anger John had felt earlier that day seeped back into him. He had to leave, or Sherlock was going to get another blow to the nose. This time, he'd break it.

"Sherlock, we've only known each other for a day and I'm not eager to hop into bed with someone I hardly know!"

John paused to keep a level head so he didn't disturb any nearby rooms.

"I'm going out."

John slammed the door behind him and it made the room shake. Sherlock dismissed John's passive anger and continued to think about the creature they could be dealing with.

_Demon? No, too strategized. Pagan God? Possible. Something I'd never dealt with before? Also possible._

Sherlock sighed and decided he'd lie down for a quick rest. His mind was starting to feel the collapse of working for five days straight with no rest. Sherlock quickly drifted to sleep, and John returned twenty minutes later. John walked into the dark room and noticed a figure lying in the bed.

"Bastard."

He wasn't about to give Sherlock the satisfaction of John caving and wrapping up in the sheets next to him. He walked passed the bed and looked into the shower. It'd have to do. John quickly and quietly sneaked to the edge of the bed and pulled a pillow and blanket off the bed. He returned to the bathroom and threw the pillow on the floor and tried to pretend the shower wasn't so uncomfortable. At least it'd all be better in the morning.


	4. Chapter 4

**I had a lot of fun writing this chapter and oh look! Big fight scene next chapter! Gruesome death and feelings next chapter!**

* * *

Sherlock woke fairly early in the morning. His eyelids fluttered opened to an empty bed.

_Of course John didn't come back last night. A hunting partner abandoning me is nothing new._

He untwisted the sheets on top of him and climbed out of the bed into the tight squeeze between the wall and the mattress.

_Damn these motels._

Sherlock scanned the room for any signs that John had returned sometime last night, a little sliver of him still hoped that he hadn't left him to hunt alone. The gift bag remained untouched on the table and the room was almost exactly as he had left it. Sherlock frowned. He walked towards the window and threw open the curtains. Light streamed in the small room and outside the Impala still sat quiet in the lot out front.

He let out a small sigh of relief, glad that John hadn't abandoned him here. Sherlock closed the lighter blind of the window, allowing light to still enter but also allowing him to strip down to his underwear. He entered the bathroom and tore off his pants, quickly wrapping his waist in one of the white towels hanging in the restroom. Slowly, Sherlock made his way across the cold, tiled floor of the bathroom and opened the shower door. He turned the knob on the shower and ice water came spilling out of the showerhead.

"What the bloody hell are you doing?"

John flopped around on the shower floor, scrambling to gather the blanket and pillow he'd previously been sleeping with. Water seeped through his jumper, making it cling to his chest in an uncomfortable, itchy way. Before he knew exactly what he was doing, he sprung himself at the doe eyed Sherlock and tackled him to the ground. John sat on Sherlock's chest, digging his fingers into the curly haired man's shoulders and dripping cool water onto his bare chest.

Sherlock lay stunned on the tile. He watched as John unclenched his fingers from his shoulders and quickly stood, towering over him. The water caught in John's hair sprayed in every direction as he shook his head.

"What the hell was that, Sherlock?"

Sherlock scrambled to stand up, loosing his towel in the process. The curly haired scowled, trying hard not to seethe with rage.

"What are you doing in the shower?"

"I was sleeping!"

Sherlock gave a hearty, sarcastic laugh.

"Are you still bitter about sharing one bed?"

John bit his lip, fighting back the urge to tell Sherlock to fuck off.

"We'd only just met! I'm not going to share a bed with someone I've just met!"

"Obviously, you've done it before."

John balled his left hand into a fist, and lifted his right arm in a smack against the pale skin covering the curly haired man's raised cheekbones. Sherlock raised a hand to ease the stinging on his cheek, and brushed a lock of curly, ebony hair out of his face. He shoved John out the door and slammed it hard in his face. The force of the slam made the wall rattle, only seeming to fuel John's fury towards him. He started banging on the doors and screaming loud enough that he would for sure be heard over the sound of the roaring water in the shower.

"Oh, real mature!"

Sherlock flung the door open, threw the sopping blanket and pillow at John, and slammed the door once more. John stood at the door, steaming with rage, and began peeling off his wet clothes. The sopping pile stood idly at the door as a trap for when Sherlock returned from the shower. John smirked at his little plan, and made way for his suitcase to pull out fresh clothes. As he pulled on a smoky grey button up over his crisp white undershirt, there was an incredibly loud crash and a deep, baritone "ugh" ring out from the bathroom.

"Karma's a bitch, Sherlock!"

John waited for a response, but was greeted only by the sound of the shower running. He couldn't hear Sherlock moving about the shower either.

"Sherlock?"

Panic had started to rise up in John.

"Sherlock! Answer me!"

He stood vigil at the bathroom door waiting for any sign that Sherlock was stirring about the shower. When no answer came, the trained hunter in John was released. He kicked the door in forcefully, blowing it open with an impressive thud.

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock was sitting on the floor of the shower, arms wrapped tightly around his knees. He scowled at John.

"I don't need your help."

The words Sherlock sneered should've pissed him off, but he felt more relief that the curly haired git was only too stubborn to respond to his calls than dead. His eyes fluttered over the naked man sitting on the floor. The water from the shower made his body glisten, and the swirling steam from hot water made him appear mysterious rather than a pouting five year old.

"What are you staring at?"

Instantly, John was jarred from the entrapment of Sherlock's bare form by that unique baritone voice. Embarrassed, he looked at the destroyed shampoo bottle that was spilling goop everywhere after what looked like a violent toss to the shower wall.

_So that's what I heard._

"I was just…nothing. I wasn't staring at anything."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed as his eyes flickered over John's outfit.

_Acting on instincts from hearing signs of a struggle. Apparent through his lack of trousers._

He snickered to himself and lifted himself off the floor, his face dropping once he stood fully.

"Get out."

John crossed his arms and quickly uncrossed them, instead throwing his hands up in self-defense.

"Alright. I was just making sure you were…right, good."

He started towards the door and slipped in a cold pool of water from their fight earlier that morning. John landed with a hard thud and sharp pain to the back of his head.

"Motherfucker!"

Sherlock let out a deep laugh.

"Karma is indeed a bitch."

John managed to pick himself up with one hand holding his head attempting to aleve the ache on his head. Carefully, he dodged the tiny pools of water left on the floor and picked up the pile of sodden clothes, laying them out to dry. He cursed showers and water under his breath and was hit by a sudden pang of hunger. Truthfully, John hadn't had a meal since he got on that plane. The only things he'd eaten were mints that Lestrade offered him and gummy orange slices from the gas station up the road.

"Get ready to leave soon. I'm starving."

John quietly closed the door of the bathroom and threw on some fresh denim. Out of boredom, he turned the telly on and began flipping through channels for something to watch. With a sigh, John decided on watching a movie off of the HBO channel. The movie was nearing the end and the villain was on-screen.

**_"I will walk over your cold corpses!"_**

As if he'd been summoned directly by name, Sherlock burst trough the door and stood naked, dripping water on the burgundy carpet of the motel.

"Corpses?"

He began rubbing his hands together and smiled maliciously, letting out deep little chuckles to himself. John took one look at him and instantly flipped the telly off.

"Uh, no. Can you please put some pants on?"

Sherlock scowled, but silently obeyed John's request and put on fresh pants.

"Happy?"

John let out a stifled little chuckle.

"It's better. Finish getting dressed. We're leaving."

On the corner of the road stood a diner that was only a six-minute walk down the street from the hotel. Sherlock had a blank expression, deep in thought during the entire walk and didn't respond to any of John's attempt to make conversations.

"Sherlock?"

"Mmm?"

"You're about to-"

Before John could finish, Sherlock had walked straight into a fire hydrant on the side of the road. He'd been too engrossed in thought to process anything going on around him. John tried hard to stifle his laugh. Sherlock let out an exaggerated, throaty groan of pain.

"Oh, don't be so dramatic."

"I'm not being dramatic."

John released the laugh he'd been trying so hard to hold back.

"C'mon."

Both men stumbled into the diner called "A Shake, Rattle, & a Roll". It was a smallish diner and decorated with a 50's theme, complete with jukebox, black and white checkered floors, and red vinyl seats. The place was almost empty, except for two other tables and one booth occupied by a small family, a teenage couple, and a group of 3 men. John motioned towards a white marble table in the middle of the diner and Sherlock followed suit. An older woman approached their table, handing out two menus and taking down beverage requests.

"Sherlock."

"Yes, John?"

The smaller man ignored the look of irritation on the curly haired man's face. He motioned to the wall that had the daily specials.

"Look, Tuesday. Pig 'N' a Poke."

Sherlock smiled sarcastically in response. A faint memory flooded his mind. His smile faded away into concern.

"Don't order it."

"And why not?"

"It's…just…the Tuesday special doesn't live up to its name."

John shot Sherlock an I-have-no-idea-what-you're-talking-about-and-you'r e-insane look and shrugged.

"Whatever."

The same waitress came back to the table to take orders. After the waitress disappeared, John pulled out some folded papers from his back pocket.

"Alright, so, another missing person report was put out today. Disappeared from the same camping grounds."

Sherlock snatched the crumpled report from John's hands and carefully skimmed over it.

"Anthony Mills."

"Yes. He was last scene walking into the woods by two other campers."

"Anything happen to the other two?"

"No missing persons reports, if that's what you're asking."

A very devious grin spread across Sherlock's face. Abruptly, he stood up and left the diner.

"Sherlock! We didn't finish bre-oh why bother."

He pulled out his wallet and left some bills for the meals they had and ran after the curly haired man.

"Where are you going, Sherlock?"

The taller man turned towards John, speeding his pace from excitement.

"Four mysterious disappearances and two witnesses," he threw his arms up a bit from his sides, "oh it's Christmas!"

John was struggling to keep up with Sherlock's pace, but caught up once they reached the motel room. Quickly, both men donned carefully tailored suits and set off in the Impala for the first witness's house.

"James Tiberius, 337 Pinion Jay Way. This is the place."

Sherlock knocked on the mahogany door. A man in a stained Next Generation shirt, torn jeans, and disheveled hair stood on the other side.

"Can I help you?"

James sounded incredibly tired. More than likely, he hadn't slept at all the past few days.

"Mr. Tiberius, we need to talk to you about a camping trip you took two days ago."

"Who wants to know?"

John pulled out an FBI badge from his suit pocket and held it up.

"I'm agent Freeman and this is agent…"

He looked at Sherlock's cold face, trying to figure out a suitable alias for him.

"Assange."

Sherlock smiled at James, going along with the alias fabricated.

"What do you want to know?"

James stepped onto the front porch and closed the door behind him.

"Anything you can remember about this man."

John handed him the rumpled missing person report and James took the paper, running a hand through his hair.

"Yeah, I know this guy. He was like any other camper. One day, he went to take a walk through the woods and didn't come back before night fell. I didn't think it was much until I left the next day and saw no signs that he'd returned."

Sherlock's eyes fluttered over James, deducing anything he could. John continued with his questioning.

"Did he ever say anything to you? Anything at all?"

James shook his head.

"No."

"Thank you, Mr. Tiberius," he handed him a business card, "we'll be in touch. Call us if you remember anything."

James nodded and retreated back into the house, closing the door with a loud squeak. Sherlock glanced quickly at John.

"Why do you even have an FBI badge?"

John smirked at the taller man.

"Let's see what the next guy has to say. It's a good thing he's only a couple houses up."

Both men went up the street to 378 Pinion Jay Way. The house was a boring shade of beige, hidden slightly by the trees around it.

John knocked on the door this time. A tall man in a white button up, blue tie, and dress pants answered it.

"Can I help you two?"

John pulled out his FBI badge again.

"Jim Levia? Agents Freeman and Assange. We need to ask you a few questions about the camping trip you took two days ago."

Jim nodded at the badge.

"Is this about the camper who went missing," he shook his head, "God, I feel horrible."

"Please, tell us what happened."

"You won't believe me if I did."

Sherlock intervened in John's questions.

"Try us."

Jim stood silent for a moment.

"Well…he came over to my tent for a bit. He remembered me from high school and I went along with it. We sat and roasted some hot dogs for lunch. Eventually, he asked me if I wanted to go for a walk through the woods that evening. I said sure. We were walking and…"

Silence.

"Mr. Levia, it's very important that we hear all aspects of the story."

Jim looked down and met John's eyes.

"He…he…I don't even know what I saw."

"Tell us what you thought you saw."

John's gaze was unwavering and comforting. Jim let out a deep breath and ran a hand through his shaggy, dark brown hair.

"I thought I saw this, this thing grab him and pull him towards the trees. I looked around for him, but I couldn't see or hear any sign of him. You probably think I'm insane."

Jim was breathing erratically, fighting back tears. John shook his head.

"No, Mr. Levia, we don't think that at all."

Sherlock looked over at the shorter man, confused.

"We don't?"

John elbowed Sherlock in the gut, resulting in a pained groan from the taller man.

"He's joking. Of course we believe you," he handed Jim a business card, "call us if you remember anything else."

Sherlock breathed in a sharply.

"We'll be in touch."

Jim nodded and closed the door. Once it was shut, John instantly turned towards Sherlock.

"What the hell were you thinking?"

"You don't honestly believe that story, do you? His guilt is written all over him."

"Yes, I believe him, Sherlock. His guilt is because he's the last person who saw Anthony in the woods. I've come to learn that you have to instill some sort of trust in others that what they say is true."

Sherlock said nothing.

"All right, what have we got so far?"

The taller man narrowed his eyes slightly at John.

"An overnight disappearance and a monster that lives in the woods. Oh, and it apparently prefers trees."

John shook his head in disbelief, remembering a brief encounter he'd had almost fifteen years ago.

"I didn't want to believe what I saw when we went to the camp ground, but I know for sure what we're hunting."

Sherlock furrowed his brow.

"What is it?"

John shook his head, unable to meet the intense gaze of the taller man next to him.

"It's a Wendigo."

Sherlock straightened his stance. A small smile flickered across his face.

"Brilliant."

* * *

_Author Notes_

_1. A Shake, Rattle, & a Roll is based off the song that I love very dearly._

_2. The Impala is a 58 Chevy Impala, not to be confused with Supernatural's 67 Chevy Impala. Personally, I love both, but I swing more towards the style of the 58._

_3. James Tiberius is my tribute to Star Trek and so is his Next Generation t-shirt. (I was laughing for five minutes straight because I thought it was hilarious.)_

_4. Jim Levia is my little way of saying imagine this as Misha Collins. Jim was derived from Jimmy Novak (also used as a missing person in the story) and Levia was derived from Leviathan._

_5. Agents Freeman and Assange. Obviously, Freeman is derived from Martin Freeman aka John Watson. Assange was derived from the movie The Fifth Estate, starring Daniel Bruhl and Benedict Cumberbatch._

_6. Be ready for lots of violence next chapter, because John and Sherlock are hunting down the Wendigo. Spoiler: Next hunt will have a lot of...bite..._


	5. Chapter 5

"We'll head back to the camping grounds tonight. First, let's stop by the Texaco and pick up a few lighters. I think I might have a flare gun left in the glove compartment of the car."

"Sherlock."

"It'd be stretching it to see if I have two, but I could always phone Lestrade for another. We'll have to have flashlights too, but I have plenty of those in my suitcase."

"Sherlock."

"We'll also need to get out of these monkey suits and make plenty of noise while we're there to attract it."

"Sherlock! Calm down for a moment, will ya?"

Sherlock stopped pacing around in the grass outside Jim's house and glared at John.

"Listen, we can't just run in there willy-nilly alright? We need an actual plan."

"That's what I was just planning."

"No, you weren't. You were talking to yourself about stuff we'll need. If we just ran in there with the correct supplies but no plan it'd be suicide. We need an actual strategic plan."

John stood at the door of the Impala and slid into the driver's seat.

"Let's go back to the motel and think about what we're actually going to be doing. Coming?"

Sherlock stood defiantly until he heard John start the car up and pull out. He paused at the end of the drive to glance at Sherlock.

"Suit yourself then. Have fun walking."

John pulled the car out further and drove slowly down the road, waiting for Sherlock to run towards the car demanding it to stop.

"John, wait."

He smirked at the curly haired man jumping over the passenger door and into the leather seat next to him. They may have known each other for a little over a day, but it felt like more to John. The way Sherlock acted was increasingly irritating, but all the same he couldn't picture being away from him. He knew that one day they'd have to say goodbye. After this hunt Sherlock was going to drop him as a hunting partner, but not if he could help it.

"I'm glad you see it my way."

Sherlock shot John a look of pure acid and buckled himself in. John chuckled softly and continued down the road. He was enjoying the feeling of the mountain air in his sandy blonde hair.

"John, where are we going? This isn't the way back to the motel."

"I thought we should stop by the store first. You were the one who was going on about everything we needed."

John turned his head slightly to look at Sherlock before returning his gaze back to the road. He pulled into a Wal-Mart parking lot. The curly haired man hopped over the side of the car and stood seething with irritation at the amount of time John was taking getting out of the car. Slowly, John opened the door, reveling in the feeling of Sherlock's increased impatience. He stood at the door, locked it, and looked at the man standing across from him. Sherlock hadn't moved a muscle when John got out of the car, but he'd let a little glimmer of emotion flick across his usually stoic face.

_What was that? An emotion besides anger? This is Sherlock, that face could mean anything. If it was a true emotion, what is it? Given Sherlock it could be anything, really. Relief? Expectancy? Happiness? John-please-keep-up-I-don't-have-time-to-wait-arou nd-on-you?_

The look passed in the blink of an eye, but the image of Sherlock's face was seared into John's mind. It felt like, for the first time, he had an actual glimpse of the man beneath the pompous shell built out of anger, guilt, pain, and loss.

Of course, Sherlock never told John anything about his past, but he could tell. This business, hunting, does things to people. People you trust turn against you, and those you love end up dead, all because you weren't there to protect them. Years of dealing with loss and guilt add up. The total guilt of each person lost to an _if-only-I'd-gotten-here-sooner_ situation makes a suit equal to a knight's armor. It ways you down until you can't possibly believe yourself to be the good guy anymore. John could see the shell of a man Sherlock truly is. He could tell from his walk that he's lost so much and feels responsible for every person whom he's ever loved and lost. That, of course, is the life of a hunter. Saving people, hunting things, until you die running or die trying.

John himself carries a suit of armor like that. Always wondering if he's truly the villain, instead of the hero.

Sherlock huffed and turned to walk towards the entrance of Wal-Mart, leaving John to follow behind. The shorter man caught up to him at the front door.

"Sherlock, do you think they sell flare guns here?"

The curly haired man let out a deep, baritone laugh.

"You _are_ the one who drove us here, John. Why would you have come if you weren't sure?"

John stood in silence. Sherlock sighed.

"It's only logical they'd sell them here. Wal-Mart keeps its camping and fishing section well stocked. They prepare for every scenario for a man camping and fishing, which would included a stranded fishing boat."

"Right. I guess that makes sense."

Both men gathered all the supplies needed from the sporting goods department and made their way back out to the car.

"Sherlock, do you think you could at least take _one _of these bags?"

Sherlock ignored John, choosing instead to quicken his pace and hop over the passenger's door before John could make it halfway to the car.

"Bloody bastard." He muttered to himself, struggling to lift the bags into the trunk.

John slammed the trunk door and walked to the driver's seat, pausing to stare at the sight before him. Sherlock had sprawled out tantalizingly in the passenger seat, resting his feet on the dash and covering his eyes left hand. Whatever the curly haired git was fishing for in his mind was making his right foot twitch slightly and his other hand tapped the beat of Beethoven Symphony No. 9 on the car door. John subconsciously ran his tongue along his bottom lip let a smile curl on his lips and his anger towards the other man softened a bit as he climbed into the driver's seat next to Sherlock.

He lightly pushed the other man's shoulder, resulting in a deep groan of "hmm?".

"Sherlock, how about we hunt tomorrow morning. It's already 3:52 in the afternoon and there's no way we'd be able to catch the Wendigo before it gets dark, and you should know that a Wendigo is a trained killer of the night."

The curly haired man stirred slightly next to him, pulling his feet off the dash, but refusing to part his hand from his face.

"We can catch him."

"No, Sherlock, we can't. We can't catch a Wendigo in less than four hours."

Sherlock ripped his hand from his face and glared at John.

"What do you propose we do then, almighty John?"

John scowled at the bastard beside him and started the car, pulling out of the parking spot and driving out towards the street.

"First of all, I'd very much appreciate it if you dropped this attitude of yours…"

Sherlock refused to look away from John and glared with sharper fury at him.

"Second, I think we should devise our plan of action for tomorrow. Perhaps over an early dinner? You've barely gotten anything in your stomach since the plane trip here."

He glanced over at the stubborn git next to him, expecting to be shot down immediately. Instead, Sherlock let up on his cold stare and shifted to look directly ahead at the semi in front of them.

"Fine. I know a lovely spot where you can eat and look out towards the woods for signs of movement or distress."

John smirked slightly, knowing full well this was probably the only time Sherlock would comply with his decision to lead on this case. They drove the rest of the way back to the motel room in content silence. When they finally pulled into a spot close to their room, Sherlock was the first to break their silence, throwing the trunk open and grabbing a few of the Wal-Mart bags.

"John, be sure to bring the flare gun with tonight in case we do spot distress."

With that, he turned from John and threw the motel room door open, his black overcoat disappearing through the entryway. The hours passed by slowly, with John continually turning the telly off and on, trying to get Sherlock to play a hand of poker, and finally succeeding in getting the stubborn bastard to play Clue.

"Sherlock, it's not possible for the victim to have done it himself! It's not in the rules!"

John was practically screaming at Sherlock as he threw his cards down in a fit of rage. Sherlock snatched the board off the floor, threw it at the wall with a loud "smack", pulled his knife out of a mysteriously hidden pocket inside his trousers, and plunged it through the board to pin it to the wall.

"Then the rules are wrong!"

John watched with his mouth agape as the curly haired drama queen sulked on the bed, folding his arms and crossing them tightly across his chest. A strand of ebony hair fell out of the rest of his locks and covered part of his face. In an annoyed huff, he blew it out back into place and crossed his arms tighter.

"C'mon, Sherlock, you're overreacting!"

"I am not overreacting, John, I'm merely responding to the fault in the game's rules."

"That's my point, Sherlock! It's just a bloody game and you threw your knife straight into the middle of it because you didn't agree with the rules!"

Sherlock said nothing and scooted so he was facing the wall, away from John. After a stubborn 20 minutes of pouting, Sherlock ran a hand through his locks and let out a minute sigh.

"Dinner?"

John looked up from his book and over at Sherlock.

"Starving."

They left for a little brewery and grill named Oak Creek, nestled fairly close to the Bootlegger Campgrounds with an astonishing view of the woods nearby. John made sure to get an outside table for two that directly faced the woods. Per Sherlock's request, he helped the bloody bastard rearrange the table to the precise specifications that Sherlock had laid out. The curly haired diva sat down and shed his heavy coat, revealing a purple button up that was perfectly tailored to fit his body and hug it in all the right ways. He let out a satisfied sigh.

"Much better."

John had watched Sherlock adjust in the seat, stretching the shirt over his chest and straining the buttons, with a slightly agape mouth. He quickly shut it and offered a small, perky smile to Sherlock before sitting across from him. They spent a full five minutes in content silence and gazing over the dinner menu before a short, brown haired woman arrived at their table. John was first to place his drink order.

"I'll have a glass of Beringer White Zinfandel, please."

Sherlock snapped his head towards John and narrowed his eyes at the blonde man sitting across from him.

"You're the designated driver, John. You shouldn't be drinking."

John rolled his eyes.

"It's a glass of wine, Sherlock. I'll be fine. Besides, I have a small surprise after dinner that doesn't require driving at all."

With that, John smirked at Sherlock, leaving the curly haired man furrowing his brow in confusion. Sherlock closed his eyes slowly and opened them again, with a tight-lipped smile to the waitress.

"I'll take a glass of Acrobat Pinot Noir."

The waitress smiled a bit awkwardly at the two of them and ran off to fulfill the drink orders, returning a few moments later with a candle for the table. Both Sherlock and John stared at the candle, then at each other, settling on staring at the waitress and fumbling with words to explain their situation.

"I'm not his…"

"We're not…"

"…date!"

"…together!"

The woman looked back and forth between the two men, watching as their faces began turning a bright cherry red. She smiled wider, and left to bring back their wine selections. Sherlock ran a hair quickly through his hair, pushing back his ebony locks.

"That was, uh-"

"Don't."

He glanced up at the man sitting across from him. John had begun to shift around uncomfortably in his seat, smiling slightly at Sherlock as if to ease some of the awkward that had suddenly filled the outdoor eating area.

"This," he motioned to the room surrounding them, "is not a date. We're on surveillance and trying to get food into our systems. Understand?"

John wanted nothing more than to say how much bullshit had just slipped from his mouth. He burned with a desire to call this a date, to reach across and take Sherlock's hand and trace little designs into the back of it while they waited for their drinks to return, to just lean across the table and close the distance between the two in front of the whole bloody restaurant, to kiss that beautiful cupid's bow until it was red and puckered. He just wanted the warmth he felt in his stomach to last, and he knew exactly how he was going to do it.

Sherlock nodded in response to John's simple request, silently recognizing the plea to forget the little rocky patch that just happened. The waitress returned and placed their wine glasses in front of them, jotted down their dinner requests, and disappeared to give their order to the chef. John tried to fill the blank spaces of their surveillance with small talk, which Sherlock shot down almost instantly.

"Sherlock, what was your life like before you got into hunting?"

John turned in his seat to face the man sitting next to him who went visibly rigid in his seat.

"Why do you want to know?"

"I was just curious…"

Sherlock remained motionless and rigid, forcing John to look back towards the woods to keep from staring at him. Twenty minutes passed, and when their food came, neither of them made any motion to eat.

"My life before hunting wasn't that great."

John looked over at Sherlock and raised an eyebrow, curiosity grasping hold of him and refusing to let go.

"What do you mean?"

"I have…always been sort of…what you would call a…black sheep."

"You're saying you were unique?"

"That's a very…tame…way of putting it."

"Go on."

Sherlock sighed and decided to face John in his seat, staring at him with piercing turquoise eyes.

"I had a better mind than the rest. Never really had to put in much work when it came to class. I was able to memorize things at a glance and knowledge came naturally to me. Eventually, classwork became boring to me and I filled my time running experiments in my bedroom or playing my violin. When I brought my findings in to class, the response I received was…not what I'd expected. Constantly, I was teased, made fun of, and beat up. I graduated school, but instead of going to Oxford as planned, I had a werewolf encounter and found solving these supernatural puzzles to be quite challenging and exciting."

"That can't possibly be all!"

"That's all you're going to get."

Sherlock turned to his wine glass and downed half of it, before cutting into the chef's special filet mignon he ordered. John let out a small sigh of defeat, realizing that pressing into the issue would result in opening wounds the other man probably wasn't ever going to be ready to discuss with anyone, especially not some bloke he just met, who insisted on working a case with him, and currently shares a motel room with. The rest of their meal was spent in silence. John offered to buy and split a crème brulee with Sherlock, but the curly haired man raised a hand to stop him.

"Let's pay and leave."

Sherlock threw a few twenties to cover the expense of both their meals and a couple of ones for the tip of the waitress. John tried to put up a fight about splitting the cost, but was shot down by Sherlock, who promptly left the restraint afterwards. Quickly, he replaced one of the twenties with his own and left the restaurant to go find the curly haired git. John found Sherlock waiting near the edge where the trees met the parking lot and led him towards a little path in.

"John, I thought we specifically agreed that we weren't going to step foot into the woods tonight unless signs of distress showed."

The shorter man stopped his walking and looked back at Sherlock, who was currently scanning the trees for signs of movement that John may have detected. He glanced back at the mop of blonde hair and found him beaming with a wide smile. John to a step closer and leaned towards Sherlock's ear, so his lips would barely brush the soft, ebony curls. His voice dropped a few octaves into a low growl.

"Help me, Sherlock, I'm in distress."

Sherlock leaned a back so their faces were mere inches apart and met John's stare. His gaze slightly faltered to the other man's lips, but returned to John's blue eyes whose pupils had blown wide. Before Sherlock could do anything, John pulled away from Sherlock and ran up the rest of the path, beckoning the curly haired man to follow. When both men reached the clearing, there was a small blanket set on the floor, accompanied by two other flannel blankets. Flabbergasted, Sherlock stood speechless, unable to figure out how John was able to set this up without his knowledge.

"Pretty neat area, huh? Not many trees, so we should be Wendigo free, but it's also perfect for looking out at the night sky. I bet you're wondering how I set this up, right?"

He turned his head toward John expecting an explanation, but all he did was smirk and sit down on the small blanket and wrapped himself in one of the flannel sheets. Wordlessly, Sherlock joined him on the small blanket and put the second flannel sheet on his lap.

"It's a beautiful night out, Sherlock."

"Indeed it is."

Subconsciously, John scooted closer to the taller man for warmth, and was greeted by a hand snaking around his left forearm. He laid his head on Sherlock's chest and watched the night pass as the taller man gently rubbed his arm in up and down motions. Twenty minutes passed in a comforting silence, and lights started to streak the sky. Unlike normal shooting stars, there were many different light trails and all of them were an orange-yellow tint. As the light streaks seemed to get closer in view, feathers could be seen. John sat bewildered and whispered to Sherlock.

"Are those…?"

"Angels."

They both stared up at the sky before coming to a unanimous decision.

"Fucking Winchesters."

John stood up and stretched, reaching a hand out to pull Sherlock off the ground.

"Let's go. We have an early morning tomorrow and I don't particularly want to stay to watch the depressing feat happening in the sky.

John drove them back to the motel and Sherlock flopped face first onto the bed when they finally entered their room.

"John?"

The sheets muffled his voice, but John was still able to make out his name.

"Yes, Sherlock?"

The taller man pulled himself off the bed and unbuttoned his straining purple shirt, leaving it hanging on his shoulders to expose his chest.

"I would enjoy it if you took me to bed."

John smiled and pulled Sherlock's shirt all the way off. The curly haired man watched as the other man left to slip under the covers, drinking in the sight before him. John had already stripped his clothes off and was down to only pajama bottoms. Sherlock ran his tongue along his bottom lip and stripped down to his pants before joining the bed. Content, John snuggled closer to the taller man and fell asleep listening to Sherlock's heartbeat.

Light streamed in through the window, shaking John out of the first pleasant sleep he's had in years. He could feel the rise and fall of breathing beneath him, and tilted his head up to look into the turquoise eyes of the man he'd fallen asleep with. Sherlock's eyes softened when he saw John disheveled with bed hair.

"Morning."

John smiled.

"Morning, Sherlock."

With a grunt of disappointment, John pulled himself off of Sherlock and made way for the bathroom. They got ready for the day's hunt surprisingly quicker than they thought, and headed down the road for the campsite.

"Sherlock, do you want to stop for breakfast? I mean, we'll be having a long day of hiking and hunting today."

The curly haired man sighed, and agreed. John pulled to a nearby drive thru and ordered them both some take away breakfast. Soon enough, they pulled up to Bootlegger. Sherlock set up separate bags each equipped with a flashlight, water, small snacks (incase either of them got peckish), a flare gun, and a pocketknife if needed. Settled, they both slung the bags over their shoulders and headed into the campsite. A teen from one of the tents set up ran over to them overenthusiastically.

"Hi guys! Welcome to Bootlegger! What are you doing with those packs? Are you camping in the woods with no tent? That's so hardcore."

John and Sherlock cast a few glances between each other and then back to the teen. John thought it best he speaks to the kid, but Sherlock spoke before he could get anything out.

"Look, we're on a very important snipe hunt. You know the snipe, right?"

The kid nodded.

"They're very dangerous. Now, allow us to get on with our hunt."

Sherlock made way for the woods, followed by John. The teen sprinted after them, not aware that they had wanted to leave it with the snipe hunt.

"Can I join you? I've always wanted to actually find a snipe on the many hunts my friends have sent me on. My name's Chris, by the way."

Chris was beaming with excitement at John and Sherlock. The tallest man shook his head, sending his curls bouncing side to side.

"No. It's too dangerous for you to tag along."

"I promise to do exactly as you say! I won't go off on my own! I can bait a snipe trap! Please, please, please just let me go with you!"

Chris had begun to grovel and a few tears were streaming down his face. Sherlock rolled his eyes and entered the woods, leaving John to deal with the sniveling teen.

"I'm sorry, but I have to agree with him. It's too dangerous for you to tag along."

He turned to enter the woods and yelled over his shoulder.

"Enjoy your camping trip!"

John pushed through brush and tree braches to find his way to Sherlock, who was silhouetted by needles stemming of the trees. They scoured for two hours, treading through undergrowth and being smacked by tree branches being pushed out of the way by the other.

"Stop it, Sherlock."

"Stop what?"

Sherlock moved a branch out of his way that promptly snapped back and thwacked John smack in the bridge of his nose. He grasped his nose with the hand not holding his flare gun.

"Jesus, Sherlock, could you be any more rude?"

"Only for you, John."

John scoffed at Sherlock and tilted his head back to prevent blood from spilling down the front of his jumper and staining it. They continued walking for another hour and a half in silence, only pausing to stop when they absolutely couldn't walk any more.

"Let's stop here for a bit, Sherlock. My leg can't handle this like it used to."

He sat down on a fallen log covered by some scratchy undergrowth and riffled through his pack, pulling out the water bottle and downing half of it in one big gulp. Sherlock paced back and forth, eager to get back to their hunt and kill the Wendigo once and for all.

"Sherlock, did you hear that?"

"Here what, John?"

"That."

Suddenly, Chris ripped through the underbrush and yelled to them with a smile of excitement.

"Hey guys! Guess what? I found the snipe! He's over h-"

A loud growl cut him off and suddenly he vanished into the treetops. John was already on his feet and followed after Sherlock, chasing after the Wendigo that snatched Chris. They reached a clear area of trees, where there was no sign of Chris but was strewn with Pokémon cards thrown in what appeared to be a trail. Sherlock bent down to look at the cards and threw one towards John.

"These are Chris'. Clever, clever boy. He left us a trail to find him."

John stared quizzically at Sherlock.

"How did…never mind. Let's go save that kid and kick some Wendigo arse."

Sherlock stood and followed John through the woods, guided by the trail of Pokémon cards formed in a half promising line. The trail led to an abandoned bomb shelter, built due to the proximity of Fort Huachuca. John kicked the bent metal door in with enough force to jostle it open slightly. He peered in and motioned for Sherlock to come close.

"I want you to listen very carefully to my instructions, Sherlock. We want to save as many people as we can. I'm going to go in first and make a bunch of noise to distract the Wendigo towards me. He'll chase the noise I make and give you clear entry to were he's storing the people for his future meals. Go find them, free them, and get to safety. If I'm not back 20 minutes after you get them all out of there, I'll have more than likely died. At that point, tell the others to start heading out and come back to finish off the son of a bitch. Got it?"

Sherlock's face dropped into what John could only describe as a soldier's battle mask.

"I'm not sending you to fight that Wendigo alone."

John's face now took on the look of a worn out battle leader. If there was one thing John Watson was good at, it was being a top-notch soldier when he absolutely didn't want to be.

"You listen to me, Sherlock bloody Holmes. I've had my fair share of one-on-one with Wendigos. I know how to handle myself. Now, if you see the opportunity to shoot the S.O.B. and it'll risk shooting me, you take the shot. The well-being of the others comes before my well-being. Got it?"

Sherlock stood silent for a moment before nodding his head. John carefully edged the door open more and walked down the grimy steps that lead down into the bomb shelter. The shelter had three corridors that split off into multiple different directions. He ran down the corridor to his left and began banging all over the walls and screaming.

"Hey! What are you waiting for! Fresh meat just walked in! It's like home delivery!"

John ran further down the corridors, stopping to pick up a piece of railing and banging it on some of the metal support structures so it rang out loudly. The sound of scuttling came from behind him, and he could here the growling and ragged breaths of the Wendigo. He was being chased. John smirked, proud that his plan had worked, and ran down the rest of the length of the corridor; occasionally throwing stones he picked off the ground to daze the creature.

Sherlock waited until he could no longer hear John calling to the creature and ran down the steps two at a time. He quickly examined the floors of the three corridors and determined that, due to the front prints of the middle corridor, there was a room at the end of it, which held all the people the Wendigo snatched. He flew down the hall, tripping and stumbling, and getting multiple scrapes and scratches all over his face, but he never stopped moving. Finally, he reached the end of the corridor and stopped dead in his tracks. Every person who'd been deemed missing was strung up, hanging from the ceiling by rope tied roughly around their wrists. They were all gagged and had layers of dirt, mud, and tears caked on their faces. Most had a blindfold tied tight around their eyes, but others were left to hang from the ropes and witness the gore before them. Some old skeletons were still hanging, stripped of all meat right down to the discolored bone. The three freshest corpses were still in tact, but missing something crucial: the contents of their abdominal cavity. All three corpses had two jagged, perpendicular lines carved through their abs, revealing the muscles inside and spilling blood out, along with tissues, organs, and some tendons. A large intestine fell out of the woman's abdominal cavity with a thick "plop" and hit the floor with a splatter of warm, maroon blood. The two other corpses looked relatively the same, except one was missing most of his upper chest and a few ribs, while the other was spewing blood everywhere from a missing chunk of his jugular vein. Sherlock felt the room spinning and became dizzy. He fell to the floor, catching himself before he slammed into the dirt encrusted concrete, and clutched his head. In the 10 years he'd been hunting, he'd never been face-to-face with such a gruesome and disturbing scene.

"Is that one of the two guys hunting the snipe? I gather you picked up on my trail of cards."

Sherlock glanced up and saw a fourth body tied up, but wriggling about. The teen, Chris, was flailing about, straining to hear for any sounds that would indicate movement. Quickly, he picked himself off the ground and ran over to cut the teen free of his binding. Once Chris was freed, he quickly untied his blindfold and pointed him in the direction of the exit.

"Go, and don't stop until you reach the edge of the woods."

"What about you?"

"I have a snipe to hunt."

Chris nodded and flew down the corridor of which Sherlock had come. He drew the flare gun out of his back pocket and followed slowly down the path. There was a loud grunt and suddenly John was barreling down the hall towards Sherlock.

"Shoot! Shoot! Shoot!"

John ran past Sherlock, followed by the Wendigo who was too wrapped up in catching John to notice him. Sherlock silently drew out his knife and stalked the length of the corridor discretely.

The Wendigo had John pinned in the corner of the back room, where he was standing in a pile of rotting flesh and a crushed hip bone.

"Any time now, Sherlock!"

John closed his eyes, unwilling to watch his own death come from a Wendigo. He kept his eyes shut for what seemed like hours, and there was no attack on him. Carefully, John opened one eye to look out just in time to witness Sherlock slice off the head of the Wendigo with his knife and shoot straight through its heart with the flare gun. He clutched the side of the walls for dear life and panted helplessly.

"Thanks for that."

Sherlock nodded at John and glanced back at the lifeless form of the Wendigo.

"No problem."

They waited a few minutes to catch their breath and left the bomb shelter, walking faster than needed. When they reached the sunlight of the entrance, John took in a deep breath and released it slowly. Chris was sitting on a log nearby with his back to them. Sherlock marched over to the teen.

"I thought I told you to stop when you reached the forest end!"

"You did."

"So why did you stop here?"

Chris slowly turned around. His mouth had a smile carved into it from a knife, and various burns running the length of his arms. White sclera eyes covered his previously brown eyes and there was a wound in his abdominal flesh that was carved with the symbol that bonded demons to men. Just below the mark, was a knife, jutting out oddly from his stomach and oozing a sort of blackish maroon liquid.

"I have a message for you, Sherlock Holmes and John Hamish Watson."

John took a step back.

"How do you know our names?"

The dried blood on Chris' mouth from the carvings cracked, making him look more disturbing with a semi-smiling stature.

"Jim Moriarty sends his love."

"Jim…Moriarty?"

Chris cocked his head towards Sherlock.

"You remember Jim. The one who carved 'Get Sherlock' into the carcass of your brother so many years ago? What was his name? Mycroft? He was alive when Jim did that, you know. Squealed like a pig with information about his baby brother."

Sherlock stood motionless, but his eyes showed sadness, anger, and most of all, fear. John stepped in to interrupt the demon at that point.

"What about me? Why does he want me? I know for a fact every demon my family's come in contact with has died by Sting."

The demon laughed and rotated its head towards John.

"Not every one, love. How long has it been? 30 years? It's good to see how much you've grown."

John was frozen. He was trying to speak but his mind couldn't form real words. Only one word was buzzing around in his mind.

"Adler."

"Good boy, John."

Chris stood up and looked back and forth between the frightened men.

"I look forward to seeing you two again. Until next time."

Adler left Chris' body in a stream of black smoke, exiting out of his mouth and leaving the dying form of Chris to collapse onto the dirt. Sherlock caught him before he could fall too hard and stroked a piece of hair out of his face. The teen was coughing up a lot of blood and was struggling to form words.

"We did it, guys. We got the snipe."

* * *

**Author's Notes! Yay!**

**1. I centred the story in Sedona, AZ, because I think Sedona is beautiful, and I wanted to start the story on my home territory.**

**2. The scene where John drives off leaving Sherlock to chase after the car is based off of what my father used to do to me and still does to me.**

**3. When Sherlock gets angry with the Clue board is based off of two things: A. the scene in Sherlock where he offers to play Cluedo and John says no. B. an actual reaction to a game of Clue I played with some friends where I yelled "the rules are wrong" and threw the board across the room (that was a couple years before Sherlock aired, mind you.)**

**4. Oak Creek Brewery and Grill is an actual place near Bootlegger Campgrounds. I haven't been there, but I imagine it's nice.**

**5. When Sherlock describes his life before hunting, I actually based that off of my own school life. All of that happened to me except for the being beat up part. I'm currently running some experiments with bacteria colonies and the effects of caffeine on the body.**

**6. I've always wanted to write a scene where some hunters see the angels falling from S8 of SPN and instantly blame the Winchesters.**

**7. Chris is based off of one of my near and dear friends irl named Chris.**

**8. Like the episode "Wendigo" from S1 of SPN, he leaves a trail for the others to follow, except with cards instead of M&M's.**

**9. You guessed it, my mind is actually that sick and twisted to describe the gruesome scene Sherlock stumbles upon. This is actually the tamed version.**

**10. The return of Adler! Adler was based off of Irene Adler and she is going to be 6 times as manipulative in this one.**

**I apologize for updating super late, but I've had so much stuff to do for school, it's not even funny.**


	6. Chapter 6

**Wow I didn't realize how long it's been since I last updated and I apologize profusely. I had a ton of work to do for school (like 4 projects in 2 weeks) and I had just about no time for fine dining and breathing. So, enjoy a light chapter and I'll have the next two up by Monday. (Thank you Halloween and Staff Development Day for giving me these next 3 days off with no homework.)**

**For one of the projects I was able to bend the rules slightly and write a Destiel fic! If y'all are interested, I'll put the original and an explicit version up! (I intended to write it explicit, but I can't exactly turn in porn for a high school grade.)**

* * *

Chris' eyes rolled to the back of his head and he lay motionless in Sherlock's now blood stained hands. Sherlock set him down gently onto the dirt of the ground, smearing some of Chris' blood further along his stained, white shirt. John was breathing raggedly and pacing back and forth, mind spinning in every possible direction.

"Sherlock, what the hell was that? Who the bloody hell is Jim Moriarty?"

He sat, unresponsive to John's questioning. Numbness sat over his shoulders, reminding him of why he became emotionally detached and wondering how they had slipped from the vast cover he'd thrown over them.

"Sherlock, answer me!"

John walked towards him and placed a shaking hand on his shoulder, turning him to look into the fearful blue eyes that were John's. Sherlock blinked and let out a breath before throwing his emotions in a cage and picking himself off the ground.

"John…"

He tried forming words as best he could, but the subject of the demon Moriarty always threw him off-guard.

"…Jim Moriarty…is a demon…"

"No shit, Sherlock!"

"…who plays for power and domination. He's been fascinated with my brother, Mycroft. Moriarty's the reason my brother dragged me into hunting."

John let out a fake laugh, stifled slightly by anger and fear.

"So, you lied to me? The man who told me to stop lying to him? You told me you joined the business because you were bored!"

"My family is none of your concern."

"It is now! I'm a part of this, just as much as you are!"

"It's not your responsibility to clean up someone else's mess."

John stared intently at Sherlock and swallowed the lump that had formed in his throat. Through all his life, he was raised to be there for those who needed his help. He grew up believing that his whole purpose was getting people out of messes, even if they hadn't been the ones to start the mess. His father slapped him whenever he cried too loud or when he couldn't keep a good enough eye on his sister. Being confronted on how it's 'not his duty' brought anger bubbling in his stomach, turning the tops of his ears bright red.

"In the end, that's all we're doing, really. We hunt supernatural things, and clean up messes that they leave behind! We lose everyone we love, and everyone we have even the slightest friendship with! I can't guarantee my own life will be fine, but you can be damn well sure I'll die trying to guarantee yours will be."

Sherlock stood silent, left speechless at what John had yelled in his fit of fury and fear.

"So this is me, cleaning up the mess I started when I first found you in the back of that plane."

John stormed off through the woods back the way they came, snapping branches off of trees and stomping on the underbrush. Sherlock stayed motionless, shocked. No one had ever said anything that sounded like they cared about him, not even any family member. He bent down and dragged Chris' body into the bomb shelter and closed the door. Before leaving, he bent the handle of the door so it'd be fairly hard to open without cutters or a good couple of body shoves. Sherlock stalked silently, following the trial of crumpled bushes that John had left in his heated wake. He walked out to the parked Impala and found a silent John sitting in the passenger seat. Neither spoke to the other for the entire ride back, content that neither wanted to press into what had been said to each other.

Sherlock parked the Impala near their room and sat, unmoving.

"John."

The shorter man whipped his head around and just about spat venom at the other man. If looks could kill, Sherlock would've been dead, six times over.

"What?"

"Hunting is all we have, isn't it?"

John stared at him, confusion lacing his eyes as his brow furrowed in thought.

"We?"

"Yes, I thought we were partners, well, hunting partners, at least. It appears I've incorrectly assumed-"

"No."

It was Sherlock's turn to cast confused glances.

"No?"

John's gaze was unrelenting and vaguely showed off the fire of anger behind his blue irises.

"We are hunting partners. We're either in it together or not at all."

His gaze softened a little.

"John, that's a lot of trust to instill on each other after only knowing each other a few days."

He shrugged and got out of the car.

"You're all I've got left."

Sherlock watched John disappear into the motel room and followed in suit.

"John."

"Drop it, Sherlock."

"But-"

"Drop it. I just want to enjoy the rest of the time we're here."

"John, listen to me-"

He turned halfway to glare at Sherlock.

"What part of 'drop it' do you not understand?"

"I understand what 'drop it' means, John, but you are not letting me say anything-"

"There's nothing left to say, Sherlock. Not today."

There was a stark silence of the room. John suddenly became aware of just how close Sherlock was standing to him. He took a step to put some space between them.

"Go get us some food, Sherlock. We can talk again then."

He moved away from the taller man and riffled through his pack. The curly haired man left quietly, and made way for the Impala. With a heavy sigh, Sherlock put the car back into drive and left the motel lot, returning twenty minutes later with some Panda Express.

When he returned, John was sat shirtless at the small table/desk area. He glanced up at the curly haired figure for a brief moment before returning to his laptop.

"Here."

Sherlock set the Panda Express down next to the laptop and began pulling out the food he'd ordered. He set out the orange chicken and chow mein, accompanied with rangoons and sweet and sour sauce. The food did little to distract John from his laptop and Sherlock scowled, reaching for a pair of chopsticks.

"John, eat."

He glanced up across the table at Sherlock and sighed. Slowly, he reached for the fork and shoved down some chow mein. Pleased with himself, Sherlock smirked before he took a rangoon.

"Sherlock, I need to talk to you."

He paused, startled that John was suddenly eager to speak to him and set down his half eaten rangoon.

"I need to talk to you about the plan for tomorrow."

Sherlock nodded and picked up the rangoon once more.

"Good idea."

John swiveled the laptop around so Sherlock could see the screen.

"I've ordered a plane ticket back to London. I'm not like I used to be, and I can't handle hunting anymore. My holiday is almost up and I'd like to be home in time to rest the final day before I have to work again."

His was face drained as he spoke, casting a tired and emotionless look across the table. Sherlock stared blankly at the ticket screen and back to John.

"I don't know about your plans, Sherlock, but I'll be out of your hair tomorrow. Don't worry about dropping me off. I've already called for a cab to pick me up."

The curly haired man sat trying to wrap his heads around words that seemed to escape him.

"John, what about being in it together or not-"

He was cut off by the soft, broken voice of the man across from him.

"Sherlock. Please. I just need a break. You know where I work, come and get me if you need help."

A swell of pain emerged in Sherlock at the thought of yet another person abandoning him. John saw the pain hiding behind the stillness in his eyes and drew a small, calming design on the taller man's hand.

"I'm going to bed."

He stood from the table and dropped the leftover chow mein in the wastebasket next to the table.

"Good night, Sherlock."

John flopped onto the bed and turned off the side lamp illuminating the room, casting everything into the darkness of the shadows. Sherlock remained still at the table, watching John thrash about finding a comfortable spot. His breathing slowed to a peaceful rate. Sherlock cleared the table of the rest of the food, unable to muster up the hunger to finish any of it. He prepared for bed silently and stood at the foot of the bed, unsure if he was welcome. Instead of joining the other man in sleep, he sat on the floor near the edge of the bed and pulled out his hunting journal from the bag on the floor. His pen sailed across the page, detailing everything aspect of their hunt. The log was fairly long and left Sherlock without anything to do. A glance at the clock read midnight, and he frowned at it. His fingers twirled the pen around in his fingers and an idea flowed through his body. He pulled himself off the ground and sat pulled a chair over to the side of the bed. The covers over John steadily rose and fell, confirming he was in deep sleep. Sherlock brushed some hair out of his face and began sketching John in his sleep. If he never gets to see him again, at least he'll have a sketch for his memories.

His sketching lasted no more than half an hour before John thrashed under the sheets. Sherlock set his book down and stood with concern. A sudden battle calm washed over him as he looked down upon the violent twists of John beneath the covers.

"John, can you hear me?"

John shook harder, crying out into the dark. His voice cracked with the words and tears stained his face, but he never once opened his eyes.

"Sherlock!"

Sherlock reached for the case he stored under the bed and pulled it out, setting it gently on the nightstand. He pulled out the dark stained violin and rosined the bow. A pull of the bow across the strings settled John momentarily before starting to thrash about once more. Sherlock took a deep breath in and began tuning. He pulled the bow across the strings, from a high A down to D. He lulled John's trashing with the calm melod D. John shifted a bit, never opening his eyes. He rolled onto his side facing Sherlock while he played the sweet song. Sherlock closed his eyes and let the music flow through him, letting the memory of John's warmth and kindness reverberate into the melody.

The bow glided across the strings, from D to E and back down to A and sailed in a slur t F. His fingers moved delicately and pointedly, forming the note E. A little murmur came from John below him, coaxing Sherlock to play more. He pulled at the strings with his bow, luring out a warm and slurre E. The melody carried itself, slowing for C# D E and returning with the slur o A. He capped the song by holding out a high B and slowly opened his eyes to the figure below him. John had stopped thrashing and was breathing peacefully again. Sherlock's eyes remained soft as he packed his violin away and stowed it once again under the bed.

He slid in slowly next to John in the bed, careful to respect the other man's wishes of personal space. His muscles relaxed into the mattress and the tension of the day slowly washed away. Sleep crept on him slowly, but before it could fully wash over him, John rolled towards him and latched his arms around his chest, entwining their legs together at the same time. He nuzzled his face into Sherlock's neck and his breathing slowed even more. He looked down at John in mild surprise and let it go. John was looking for comfort, and he was willing to let him use his body in a way that helped his sleep. John stopped nuzzling and ghosted his lips on his shoulder.

"That was a beautiful song you played."

Sherlock chuckled softly and brushed a bit of John's hair back that was sticking up.

"Go to bed, John."

He nodded moved in closer to Sherlock, latching onto his body heat. For once in Sherlock's life, he finally didn't feel like a burden anymore.

When he awoke the next day, the bed next to him was empty and cold. John's things had disappeared and a twinge of disappointment settled in Sherlock's chest. He knew he leaving, he just didn't expect him to leave without saying goodbye. The room felt unsettling and cold without him, and Sherlock sighed. A note sate on the side table and he plucked it up to read it.

Dear Sherlock,

I'm sorry for leaving without waking you to say goodbye. You just looked so peaceful and I didn't want to disturb you. My plane leaves at 6 a.m. I, um, I intend to visit a café on Baker Street in two weeks called Speedy's and your arse better be there. If you don't show, I'm going to assume you're dead.

Please, Sherlock, don't be dead.

-John

He stared down at the note in his hand and felt the sting of a tear in his eyes. Sherlock shook his head and stared dejectedly over at the covers that still smelled of John, mumbling the phrase that got him through most of the teasing, torment, abuse, and abandonment that surrounded his life.

"Alone is what I have. Alone protects me."

Guilt swelled in his chest as the tears rolled down his cheek defiantly.

"Of all the many years I've told myself that, not once have I believed what I was saying."

* * *

**I take that back turns out I do have some homework but it's nothing major. Just an experiment write up and my final draft for my English paper is due.**

**Anyway, end notes! They are as follows:**

**1. I told my friend Chris about his death and he told me I was insane. I don't know how he went a year without noticing I was off the deep end already.**

**2. Don't ask me how I know the Panda Express menu so well. The food they ordered is exactly what I get when I go, but I went through six different meal options when drafting the chapter.**

**3. The song Sherlock plays to lull John to sleep from his nightmare is actually Irene's Theme from the show. I enjoy playing the song on both the piano and violin and personally find it soothing.**

**The next two chapters will be a shift in point of view starting off with Sherlock and then John. I hope you enjoy how they spend their time separated, because I have some great stuff planned! The chapter after that is the reunion and set your markers for the one after that because I may have some smut set up for that chapter.**


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